


It All Falls Apart

by idiosyncraticWordsmith (literaryAspirant)



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Based on Gameplay, Character Death, Dark, Falling in Battle, Gen, Glorious Death, Heroes Fall, Inglorious Death, Insanity, Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-09 11:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryAspirant/pseuds/idiosyncraticWordsmith
Summary: The Hellhounds, champions of the people, legends of their time, whose names and exploits are told in taverns across the land since they joined together nearly a year ago, and favored heroes of their patron, rush from an ignominous retreat into inadvisable battle to defend against a sudden assault. With hale bodies they march fast and strike true, but on the grounds of the Darkest Estate, the body is scantily the first thing to fail a hero...





	1. The Approach

The road was long. The march was harrowing. The defeat… stung harshly, like a wound that would not seal. The trail was safer than those of the Weald, and was free of the disturbances which were so intrinsic to this land. But that did nothing to alleviate the Hellhounds as they trudged homeward from their failed march against the Swine God which had begun to squeal loud enough to be heard from the very gates of the Warrens. They had departed days ago for that familiar den of disease and darkness, outfitted with gratuitous rations and torches, and more medical supplies than their Patron would ever even consider granting any given expedition. They knew the scion of this place was not cruel, nor stingy; simply practical about the funding of their extended battle against the evils which lurked within. It was deemed practical to spare no expense in their provisioning, and thus they were provisioned appropriately.

But neither bandages nor antivenom could protect them from the evils in the dark. The depths of the Warrens were known to them from their many months campaigning within, building their legend to the peak of their careers. Reynauld and Dismas, who had first come a year ago to this place and built a fraternal bond as had never been seen before between a crusading knight and a lawless highwayman, had known those tunnels like family. Yet the particular corners they had delved into were new, and infested with monstrosities all the more resistant to their assault. In the end, it was the vestal Fey who recommended retreat. To the surprise of all, Raimbeaucourt had seconded the suggestion; the hellion was not known for fear, but it was evident even to her that it was sheer folly to delve deeper without further preparation.

But what weighed upon them most heavily was that they had retreated with scarcely a mark upon them. Their health was in good order; even the usual grime and corruption of the Warrens had not touched them. No, it was the darkness within them that made them walk with such weight. A year they had fought this war, and while many fiends had been broken upon their tide of light, and that of their companions, it felt like they were no closer to true victory. Not once had any set foot upon the manor itself in that year, and the deepest reaches of each corner of the estate were yet to be breached. And the horrors they had witnessed in one such corner… that they, legends of their peers, paragons of their kind, could do not but flee… it threatened to break them each. None shared this with the others, though, as they made their way to safety, to respite and relief, the comfort of the hamlet which they had taken for a home in this war against vileness and evil.

“I’m thinking,” Dismas spoke, “that our Patron owes me some gambling wages for this affair.”

“Our Patron pays for results,” Reynauld chastised. “Which we have failed to deliver.”

“Brother,” Fey spoke in turn, “our Patron is mindful of our well-being, and is generous with his coin. Many have come to him seeking allowances for their relief, and never has he denied them.”

“Besides!” Raimbeaucourt roared in her usual manner. “We bring results all the same! We bring news of danger, wisdom to be considered for the next bout!”

Reynauld huffed within his helmet. “I intend to be sealed within the penance hall.”

“Let me know when you’re unsealed,” Dismas jested, “I’d hate for the rod to be your only company all week, not after all that. It’d be downright selfish of you to take your leave of me the whole while!”

“For myself,” Raimbeaucourt laughed, “I’ll be thrashing about the tavern! I’ll be taking my lot of the coin for drink and merriment!”

“Some quiet will do me good,” Fey sighed, thinking of the cloister which she was so fond of.

“Fey, sister!” Raimbeaucourt said, “Were it not for your vows against joining me, taking your leave for quiet when the quiet of the Warrens nearly killed us would make me think you an unreasonable woman!”

Fey shook her head. “It was the noise of the Warrens that shook me so. It reminded me of the farm I was raised upon, in its own twisted way...”

The group fell silent then. To speak then would be to invite a further exploration of their traumas. None felt prepared to do such a thing. All turned their thoughts towards the hamlet, towards the light, towards the relief that they would all soon experience. Their certainty in their own release carried through the day, for hours, until night came upon them. They knew that the hamlet was mere minutes away, just down from the hill upon which they stood. They each paused, taking the sight of the small speck of civilization, basking in it, recalling to themselves the worthiness of their cause. For there, in the hamlet, was their home, their comrades, and for Dismas, a lover who may yet become a spouse ere the end of their work.

This was what they each stood to gaze upon as the sun set.

This was what they each saw turn to flame in minutes as the shrieks of terror and war echoed from it in the night.

Thus far had they traveled a light pace for their own well-being. Now, all sense of such a thing was gone, as they hastened to the defense of their own dying hope. Their bodies were able enough for it, but within, the Hellhounds questioned if the gnawing exhaustion within them would be kept in check long enough to face this threat.

None had an answer to that doubt. None dared linger on that fact. There was a hamlet to defend.


	2. The Collapse

Long ago had Dismas and Raimbeaucourt dismissed the notion of a pit, of a hell, all awash in flame and horror. It had been the delusion of fools for Dismas, the tool of society to maintain control over the poor such as he, a bludgeon against dissidents, which lost all power when one rejected it. For Raimbeaucourt it was never any thing to be taken seriously, in fact, among her people, it was a laughing stock of a concept, a thing to dismiss as the prattlings of the civilized folk. And for Fey and Reynauld, it had never weighed upon their minds; their devotion to their faith had assured them most soundly that their souls were safe from such torment.

Now, in the flames of the Hamlet and amid the screams of the dying, they all knew better.

The brigands had come in force, more than had been seen in the excursions across the past year. Undoubtedly the majority of their band had descended as one under the leadership of their vicious lord, and now the hordes of wickedness crashed against the Hellhounds. With blade and maul, pistol and rifle, the bandits struck against the heroes of the land, but against all these attacks the Hellhounds stood tall.

Yet in their hearts they withered.

“Strike! Strike now!” Reynauld shouted as he pressed his blade against a bandit’s defenses. “Strike now damn you!”

Dismas fired a shot at the bandit who assailed Reynauld, merely grazing the man in his haste. Instead, the bandit slipped under Reynauld’s sword and struck a decisive blow into his armor. Not enough to kill, but enough to cause a constant flow of bleeding. Reynauld stumbled back, just as Raimbeaucourt struck his attacker down.

“Sir Reynauld!” She called out. “Stand tall, Fey comes to you!”

Just so did Fey arrive and lay her hands upon him, sealing his wound with faith and sorcery.

“There are too many...” Reynauld whimpered as the fire grew hazy and clear again in his vision. The pain receded from his injury, but not his mind. Dismas was loathe to miss, and as rare to do it as well; yet now, when he, as close to a brother as Dismas ever had, was in need, now did the highwayman miss his shots. It spoke more to Reynauld than any holy script he could recite from memory.

“Speak not such things,” Fey begged over the roar of the flames. “We must press on!”

“You,” Reynauld pointed as Dismas, whom he had loved, whom had loved him. “You allowed me to be wounded by that cretin!”

“What?” Dismas asked, his shock and pain evident in his words and face, even as he wiped sweat from his brow. “I could not aim proper, the smoke and flames, they--”

“Be still,” Reynauld demanded. “I’ll hear no more of your excuses!”

“Sir Reynauld!” Fey started, but he did not listen.

“All of you, standing idle as I bleed!” He condemned. In that moment he felt a dam burst within his spirit, recalling every injury he sustained in their name. “In the Warrens, I take the vanguard against the Swine; in the Ruins, when we felled the Necromancer, it was by my blade; throughout the Cove’s passages I shielded you, and how many times was I thrown into that damnable cauldron by the Hag of the Weald?”

“We have always stood together!” Dismas said.

“And so we shall,” Reynauld grumbled, “but it shall be under my banner, by my word, and in my name! These fools shall fall by my hand, and all of you shall take their blows for me!”

“Reynauld, please, this is madness!” Fey implored, but was met by his gauntlet’s backside crashing against her.

“Speak not of madness to me!” Reynauld commanded. “Enough of this! Onwards to the rear of this damnable horde!”

As Reynauld moved on, Raimbeaucourt and Dismas looked to Fey. Flashes of her father entered her mind’s eye, of her mother abandoning her on the convent’s steps. Reynauld’s heavy hand reminded her of the nuns there. Long had she thought she had grown above them. Now, here, in the fires of the hamlet, at the height of her power and legend, she had been reduced once more to a bruised child by one beyond her power to strike back against. By one she had trusted.

“Never mind the bandits,” she whispered. “We shall be swallowed up by our own sins!”

“What?” Dismas asked.

“My mother is coming for me!” She cried out, cackling maniacally. “And I shall embrace her this time until her breath leaves her!”

Dismas and Raimbeaucourt shared a worried glance. Reynauld hawked at them furiously.

“If I do not see you all gathered next to me,” he shouted, “I shall skewer you all myself!”

“Coming, my lord!” Fey said, “Coming, o master of all, my love, my hate!”

“They are breaking...” Dismas realized. “As our Patron warned us when first we came… they are breaking...”

“It is not the first time,” Raimbeaucourt reminded. “We each have had our afflictions.”

“But we each have had a home to return to before!” Dismas pointed out. “This is our home! These flames! This hell!”

“Dismas, my comrade!” Raimbeaucourt gripped him, but he would not listen. He tore away and joined the others.

“To ruin! To ruin! First to defeat, and now to ruin!” He cried out like a hunting song.

Raimbeaucourt watched this, her party, as it fell to despair and madness in turn. She felt herself be gripped with fear.

And she broke that fear’s wrist for touching her.

With resolve and courage burning in her heart, she marched to join her party. She knew that if they could only deliver themselves from this attack, if they could ward off the enemy, they could be treated. If they would fall upon each other and themselves, then she would be the rock upon which they could stand in their oceans of madness. They were her clan, her compatriots, and she would not permit them to fall, no matter their abuses, no matter their ramblings, no matter what.

Pike in hand and flames in her heart, she marched to join her companions to bring peace to their home and to their hearts.


End file.
